Carol Boulet is semi-retired in Florida after loving her 30 years of teaching. She works part-time as a literacy coach helping young students build language skills. To enjoy the beauty of nature, she often goes to the beach and reads for hours. She moderates a book club, keeps an active social life and recently started work on a memoir in a local writing class. In 2008, Carol was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer and, after three surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation, is now a nine-year survivor.

Carol Boulet

When I returned home from my first visit to my surgeon after my breast cancer diagnosis, I could see the look of worry on my mother's face as soon as I walked in the door. Before I could speak or get across the living room, she asked me, "Did he tell you how long you have?"

My mother had been living with me for 12 years at the time, and just six months before my cancer diagnosis, my sister had passed away from a different cancer. So, my mom had been overwhelmed when I broke my bad news to her. I was the one with cancer, but I would have to continue to be her caregiver, and her rock — I needed to console her immediately. I sat down next to her and began our very important conversation. I began by saying that no one knows how long my life will last, nor hers, nor anyone's. I went on to tell her that I was still in the same boat as always. No one, no matter how healthy they are, can know if they will be here a year from now, and sadly, thousands of people will die today, I told my mom, many of them younger than I. They will pass; I have cancer, yet I will live. 

“Do you remember that accident on I-4 recently?” I asked. I reminded my mom about a 70-car pileup one morning in the fog near Orlando. It had taken place just three months prior, and there were several fatalities. “Those poor people,” I said, “likely took their morning showers, had their coffee, got into their cars and went off to start their day like they did any other day, but suddenly and totally unexpectedly they were gone.”

I told my mom not to worry anymore about losing me because my chances of living were actually no less than anyone else's, day by day. I was not in denial; I just was not going to focus on, or let others worry about, the end of my life. I accepted the gravity of my cancer diagnosis, but all it really meant was that I "might" die from it someday - well we all know that we will die of something someday. Although a cancer diagnosis makes us think about our mortality more, I knew that my someday wasn't necessarily going to come any sooner than anyone else's someday. My mom was comforted by the thought that we really are all in the same boat - we all live with uncertainty about the future every day — cancer or no cancer.

Nine years later, you bet I still believe what I said that day, and I know that this belief has helped me survive for almost a decade now. I dealt with three surgeries, chemo and radiation treatments while never expecting the worst. I had my private moments of fear and doubt, but just moments and not very often. I lost my mom the following year, but I had continued to be her rock. Sometimes roles are reversed. Sometimes we, the cancer patients, have to console others, and it seems that sometimes cancer can make us very wise. 

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When I returned home from my first visit to my surgeon after my diagnosis of breast cancer, I could see the look of worry on my mother's face.

Sometimes Cancer Patients Must Console Others

Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted by a contributing writer and does not represent the views of CURE Media Group.

Life after cancer treatments is forever extremely challenging. When I completed the months of chemotherapy and radiation, I patiently waited for my life to get back to normal - to the way it was before cancer. I just thought it would take time, but that eventually, I would work full time again teaching as I had done my entire adult life. I thought I would make plans again without having to worry about breaking them because I wasn't up to going and doing the activities I enjoyed. It took me years to accept that that wasn't going to happen. 

Instead, I had to learn to live with disfigurement and discomfort every day. I had to settle for tutoring in an office for four hours per day instead of being in my classroom and for knowing that my plans would always have to be tentative. So, I don't always feel like wearing a big smile like the ones I see on other survivors and on brave patients. And I often want to scream that there is nothing cute about colored ribbons and what they represent. Only those who have endured this feared disease can understand how I can feel all of this and still be overflowing with gratitude and joy. 

Surviving cancer breathed a new life into me – a better life – a life full of appreciation and awe. I didn't have that before. I loved life, but I was not astounded by it like I am now. I didn't celebrate life the way I do now. Now, every June, I get to celebrate Survivor's Day because after a journey during which I didn't know if I would make it or not, I made it; I am a real cancer survivor. I can feel in my bones that every single day is profoundly special and meaningful. Every single day is a privilege. This is all part of the new life that I say cancer breathed into me. 

I may never understand why I have been given these past nine years; I may never understand how I could be worthy. However, I do know exactly what it took for me to survive. I survive because of the doctors, nurses, researchers and techs who devote their lives' work to heal me. I survive because of you who walk the relays, raise funds, donate and pray. It is you who make the cure rates rise. I may not know you, but I want all of you to know every single day that you are important to me, and that I thank you every single morning when I rise. So please celebrate with me. I live because of you.

Carol Boulet

Sometimes Cancer Patients Must Console Others

I May Not Know You, But I Thank You Every Day

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